


July 5th: A Tragedy in Four Parts

by TrebleTwenty



Series: The Morning of July 5th Saga [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comedy, Crack, Everyone (Hetalia: Axis Powers), Gen, Madness, Mystery, not sure who to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrebleTwenty/pseuds/TrebleTwenty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England gets drunk, Russia sings Karaoke and America faces imminent death by cargo train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the morning of July 5th, and Alfred F Jones was spending it tied to a railway track.

Wait.

Let’s try that again.

It was the morning of July 5th, the morning after his goddamn birthday, and Alfred F Jones, aka the United States of Awesome, America, the greatest goddamn country in the whole goddamn world, was spending it tied to a railway track. A fucking railway track. Not again. He was way too hung over for this.

He should probably explain that whole ‘not again’ thing. Picture the scene. A warm July 5th morning, possibly ’93, possibly ’97, who can say, and a handsome blond Hollywood hunk named Alfred is spending it tied to a railway track. Not the same railway track as today, mind you. A different railway track, further north. Green shit instead of dusty rocks. This poor handsome Alfred, tears swimming in his baby blue eyes, is pretty scared. Getting run over, especially by train, hurts. Like, a lot.

In the end, it turned out Russia, thinking it was all hilariously funny, had been hiding nearby, watching him scream himself hoarse trying to shout for help, pissing his stupid commie pants with laughter, and only thought to come and get him when the train had been in serious danger of turning him into a sad red, white and blue smear across the North Dakota circular. He’d seen the whites of the train driver’s eyes, that’s how late Ivan had left it. Sick bastard. He’d sold the footage on to North Korea too. Who even does that?

None of this exposition, however fascinating (and potentially hilarious to frozen Eurasian freaks or psychotic Koreans), was getting him anywhere in figuring out which fucker had done it to him this time. Really, Ivan and Hyung Soo were the only ones he could really rule out, especially with the kind of hangover that could probably knock mortals unconscious. Russia would never repeat himself like this – he had too much style. Alfred was currently awaiting payback for locking Ivan in an industrial freezer on the Russian’s own national day (which had been fucking hilarious, thank you very much), which would probably come in the form of being thrown off the Chrysler building or something like that. N.K. had purchased the official footage of China’s pride and his horror; the naked-in -times-square incident, so he’d probably be happy for a while longer too. God, it was depressing that he had so many friends and family members that would seriously find it funny to actually tie him to train tracks when drunk (or unconscious) and leave him to sober up in the hot Midwestern sun and intense soul crushing dread. The UN roster definitely wasn’t short on sadists.

His twin, the man who had raised him _and_ his pervy uncle figure had all actually let someone remove him from his own home in a state of inebriation (or unconsciousness. He really couldn’t stress this enough), in the express knowledge they were going to take him somewhere dangerous _and then leave him there_.

Actually, they might have done it themselves.

What the fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing England became aware of was a pounding in his head. Oh God, he was never drinking again.

“Oh God, I’m never drinking again,” he said, or at least he tried to say, but mostly he just mumbled a bit, making his head hurt worse and disturbing the nation tucked up against his side.

“ _Mon Dieu!”_ Canada moaned, with his face pressed into England’s shoulder. “ _Je ne vais jamais boire de l’alcool encore!_   _“_

“Speak… proper, lad,” England gasped. Why was the light so loud? “No frog.” He let his head fall back against the sofa, the soft back cushioning his aching temples.

“Ahem. Yes frog.” A decidedly French voice said from somewhere in the vicinity of his trousers. Arthur screamed.

Matthew leapt away from him in alarm, and managed to fall off the sofa entirely. India, who had been asleep on England’s feet, screamed as well and kicked out as he awoke, catching the nation across from him in the face. Venezuela yelled and clawed at his ankles in retaliation, which made Paraguay sit up in alarm and cry out: ‘not the albatross!’, and it degenerated further into chaos from there, with poor unfortunate hungover nations being woken in painful and traumatising ways. In a fit of confusion, Latvia was actually pushed off of the kitchen counter by the flailing arms of Albania, and someone turned the tap on while South Korea was still sitting in the sink.

From his position lying languidly across England’s lap, France surveyed the chaos with an expression of great satisfaction, at least until England tipped him onto the floor with another shriek. He landed on top of Poland, who didn’t even seem to visibly stir. England hoped fervently that he was still alive. It wouldn’t do to kill another one on July 4th; it wasn’t the 60s anymore, after all.

“Francis, where… where are your pants?” England sighed, averting his eyes. Francis winked.

“ _Non, mon cheri_ , the question is: Where are your pants?” England looked down in horror, then kicked France in the arm.

“Made you look!” The Frenchman chuckled.

“Don’t you dare scare me like that again!” England yelled, and kicked him again for good measure.

“Wha’s time?” Canada asked blearily, carefully picking himself up off the floor. He swayed alarmingly on his feet for a few seconds, but managed to shuffle his way back to the sofa with supreme effort, taking back his original place tucked in next to England, burying his face in his shoulder again.

England lifted his wrist to his eyes and stared at it intently, his impressive eyebrows furrowed. It took him an embarrassingly long time to work out he didn’t have a watch on. At least, not anymore.

“Alastair!” he yelled.

“Fuck off, ye’ English bastard!” Came the reply.

“Where’s my watch, you conniving git?” England demanded of his brother. Scotland poked his head out of the kitchen to glare and flip him the bird, his own flame-red brows warring for the position of alpha eyebrows.

“It was my watch in the first place! You’re a bloody thief, you are! I can’t wait till I’m independent!” He growled.

“Yeah yeah yeah!” Could well be true, Arthur thought. No way could he remember with this kind of hangover. “Just give your nephew the fucking time!”

When he noticed poor Canada, grimacing from all the noise, Scotland’s face immediately softened. He spared his drunken nephew a sympathetic smile and a wave, before the deadly brows came down again and he practically spat his answer at England.

“It’s 10.30! You twat!” He added as an afterthought. “Now piss off!” He stalked straight back into the kitchen, other nations stepping out of his way in fear of possibly being decapitated by those mighty red thunderbolts which sat astride his forehead. Alpha eyebrows, indeed.

“Wanker!” England yelled after him. He shook his head fondly, then noticed France giving him a funny look.

“What?!” He demanded. France shook his head.

“There’s something wrong with that relationship, _mon cher_.” Francis told him.

The announcement of the time stirred up even more chaos around the room, and Latvia got knocked over again. Nations across the room grabbed for their phones, their watches, their clothes, in a flurry of activity, rushing for the door.

“I’m under curfew! I was supposed to be home three hours ago!” said one.

“My boss doesn’t even know I’m here!” cried another.

“I’m not even supposed to be here!” Sealand yelled, caught up in the general excitement of things.

“I need to be home in ten minutes or I’m dead,” China said, panicked, as he quickly gulped down the last of the bottle of Sake he’d ‘liberated’ from Japan when the other was occupied by the party’s host begging him for karaoke. “Where’s America? I need to thank him for his hospitality.”

“Yeah, I can’t leave until he tells me what he did with my shirt.” Cambodia agreed.

“I owe him money.” Said Bosnia. Several others looked at him sympathetically.

“Last I saw him, he was doing shots with Matthew,” India commented, still sprawled on the floor next to the couch. On the couch, Matthew suddenly shot upright, ashen faced.

“Please, let’s not talk about that,” he whispered, pained.

“No no no no no,” said Paraguay. “Prussia and Denmark were dancing to Single Ladies with him way later than that.”

“I don’t know,” Canada shook his head doubtfully, and winced as it set off his headache. “We did a lot of shots.”

“Like, he was definitely with me for the fireworks,” Hong Kong assured them. “He set them off himself.”

“That explains so much,” muttered England.

“What about the karaoke? When was that?” Sierra Leone asked. “Whenever it was, it was amazing.”

“All down to our influence,” said Senegal.

“Truth.” Sierra Leone nodded.  _“I got one less problem without you~”_ They sang in beautiful harmony, grinding in a manner nearly reminiscent of Alfred and his loyal karaoke partner’s earlier triumph, if Alfred and his karaoke partner had not been drunk and uncoordinated men.

“I never knew Russia could rap like that.” Said Ghana thoughtfully.

“Didn’t anyone prank him this year?” France asked. Silence fell.

What about the prank?

 

* * *

 

 

The Prank. Oh, the prank. The things they could say about the prank. Alfred’s trusting nature when drunk were easily exploitable, to those that way inclined, and strange, strange things had happened to him over the years.

They’d started small; hair dye, replacing all of his clothing with pretty dresses, stealing the declaration of independence, burning down the house, that sort of thing. But oh god had it escalated.

They’d caused international incidents, minor border skirmishes, nearly a major war, and Alfred and several others had needed counselling on three separate occasions.  One time they drove Alfred so mad he completely flipped and went on a bit of an annexing rampage.

Texas didn’t just up and decide to join the union overnight.

Being immortal, their practical jokes were often the level of destructive that could strike fear into the hearts of lesser men – GBH was not beyond them. In fact, nothing was beyond them any more. Imagine how far pranking could go if the participants could physically recover in a few hours and it’d been escalating since the 1700s.

In fact, you don’t have to imagine. Alfred will probably be run over by a train today. That’s how far it’s gone.

 

* * *

 

Oh God, he was burning.

“Shut the fuck up!” America yelled at the sun. This was worse than that time in the Atlantic with the chip.

“I’d be fine, but some motherfucker forgot my fucking shirt!” He screeched at nothing, pounding his legs and wriggling around, but to no avail. He let out a yelp of pain as his bare wrist made contact with the track, scorched sizzling hot in the heat of the Midwestern desert, and lay still again. Nothing he did was working.

What the fuck. What. The. Fuck. These people were not funny. He’d been here for an hour already, and he’d seen absolutely no signs of filming or any nations nearby, or even any humans nearby. He was toast. Quite literally. They were probably all still asleep. Oh God oh God oh God.

He screamed again for good measure.

“I’m too young to die! I’m not even 500 yet!” Alfred moaned and closed his eyes, laying his head down too quickly and bashing it on the metal rail. He launched straight back up again, as upright as he could go while bound to the floor, which was not very high.

“Not my amber waves of grain,” he whimpered. Biting back the manly tears of pain, he tried again, settling himself down without further incident. He thought back, wading through the sands of time to spy on past Alfred, who, in his own humble opinion, was a fucking idiot. When, exactly, did he get drunk enough to actually agree to leave with someone? Or maybe he passed out? Some of those nations didn’t have any boundaries.

France.

Case in point.

Hey, maybe it was Frenchie? He thought back to the evening, past the sizzling in his skin, past the pounding in his head. He thought so hard he started emitting a bizarre whining noise, like a boiled kettle.

A boiled nation.

But try as he might, the only interaction he could remember with Francis was during spin the bottle. That guy was all hands, sheesh. He shivered.

Yeah, it was unlikely to be Francis anyway. He wasn’t naked. Clearly, he needed to make a list or something. Try and establish a timeline of events and see what he could remember. At the moment, it was all just blurring into shots with Mattie.

Explosions … shots with Mattie.

Hungary stuffing crumpled dollar bills into his underwear … shots with Mattie.

(He was probably 10% liquor, after all of that. Canada might even still be drunk.)

Setting fire to the floor with his Iggy Azalea, holla. Now that was a highlight. They’d been the stars of the show. Him and Ivan had to do Black Widow next, that’d be freaking _sweet_. They’d do Bang Bang too, if England would agree to be Jessie J- but seriously though, why would you not?

But he digressed.

Then more shots to celebrate his triumph, with Canada _and_ Russia this time. Good lord, he could’ve died.

After that, things got a whole lot fuzzier.

Strip poker.

England’s tattoo.

Someone daring him to make out with Mexico, hell yes. Hopefully he did it.

The roof.

Taking someone by the hand and leading them upstairs to his bedroom…

Holy shit. Ho-ly-shit.

Did he _score_ last night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so trashy.  
> Watch in barely contained horror as I torture my favourite character for comedy.


	2. Part 2: Who slept with Alfred F. Jones?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England is still drunk, Russia is unconscious, and America makes a cannibalism/penis joke.

“Okay,” said Canada. “It’s 10.36. Who’s next?”

“Thailand,” The nation answered, bemused.

“ _Thailand…_ ”He noted the name down, and then looked back up. “Any property lost damaged or stolen?”

“Uhhh… no?”

“Any incidents involving America’s property to report?”

“No.”

“Does anyone need to call you in the morning?”

“No!”

“Any special message for the host?”

“Just… thanks for a great party, I guess.”

Canada took a note of this. “Thank you for you cooperation. You can leave now.” He said. “Next!”

“Uhh, bye then?” Thailand looked slightly taken aback at his abrupt manner, but had to leave anyway as Cambodia shoved him out of the way to monopolise Canada’s attention.

“I lost my shirt!” Said Nation wailed desperately. “I can’t leave without my shirt!”

“It’s okay,” Canada said soothingly. “If you could just wait through here,” he gestured to a growing group of nations gathered in the kitchen, in various states of distress or undress. “We’ll get back to you and your problem as soon as possible. Next!”

“Paraguay.” The South American Nation wrung his hands nervously. “Listen, please don’t be mad.”

“ _Paraguay…_ ” Canada looked up from his clipboard, his brow furrowed. “There are no judgements on July 5th, you know that.” He patted Paraguay on the arm comfortingly. “Now, any property lost damaged or stolen?”

“I’ve lost my Albatross.”

Canada blinked.

“What?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Steven, Steven, no!!” England cried on the other side of the room, trying desperately to wrestle Australia away from the sound system. “It isn’t 1969 anymore!”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life, pommie bastard!” Australia shouted back. “I need to party!” France watched them grapple with an expression of mild appreciation, before turning back to the quite intense debate that was forming in the lounge. He’d been threatened with bodily harm - by England - to find some trousers.

“Let’s just work our way through the house, like, methodically.” Hong Kong said. He had decided going home was not on the cards, violently resisting all attempts by China to take him any further west than Pennsylvania, and he was now finishing off the Whiskey.

“Look, we’ll know for sure what we need to do when Canada’s finished the List.” Seychelles countered. “It’d be stupid to start when we don’t even know who’s still in the house.”

“Prussia hasn’t turned up yet. Neither has Mexico. Denmark and Spamano aren’t here. He’ll be with one of them.”

“Uh, I’m not sure how drunk you are, but I think I should let you know,” France said. “Spamano isn’t a person.”

“Oh?” Hong Kong answered, sounding confused.

“It’s a ship name.”

“I still believe in USUK.” Seychelles said sadly.

“Personally, I am partial to FrUK.” France sniffed haughtily.

“Fuck off!” England yelled over from where Australia had finally wrestled him into a headlock. Seconds later, the familiar refrain of Nicki Minaj’s Anaconda filled the house for what was possibly the fifth time that weekend. France immediately swivelled round to see if there were any buns for him to admire.

Australia, well, he tried to dance, he really did, but it just wasn’t the same without Alfred there. He sat down sadly, after one final half-hearted booty shake.

“Cheer up, lad,” England patted his shoulder comfortingly. “We’ll find him soon enough.”

 _“Dick bigger than a tower, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Eiffels,”_ Sang Nicki Minaj. It didn’t help.

“I’ve called Molossia,” Said Seychelles. “And he’s in Peru, so I think he has his own problems.”

“How the hell did he get there?” England asked incredulously.

“Beats me.”

“We could have done with him here, he’s good at figuring out what the idiot was thinking… no matter, no matter, we’re sensible adult nations, we can find him.” England thought for a moment. “Right, we need to set up a base camp,” he said.

“Check the local police station, search the house, call the White House, that sort of thing, right?” Seychelles added. “He could be anywhere in the lower 48 – the whole of the Americas at a push.”

“Surely it’s a bit too soon for that?” England asked. “He could still be in the house somewhere. Canada hasn’t finished updating the list yet.”

She gave him a look that pointedly said ‘stop trying to keep up with the youngsters, it’s embarrassing.’ England resented that implication hugely. He wasn’t _old_.

“Well, someone who knows where he is might still be in the house.” He conceded after a moment.

“Here’s a list of nations who have already left,” Canada joined them, exhausted from his job of corralling the hungover troublemakers of the world into something resembling order. He’d certainly drawn the short straw that year. He handed the list over to England. “Here’s a list of damages.” He handed this one to Hong Kong, who just stared at it blearily. “And this is a list of property and friends missing, along with which Nation they belong to.” He gave this one to France, who scanned it quickly, before his eye caught on something interesting.

“You do realise this says Albatross, right?” France asked, bemused.

“Yes. Yes I do.” Canada’s expression had ‘ask on pain of death’ written all over it.

“Looks like most nations are accounted for,” England commented, after leaning over to check France’s list. “That should make our job easier. Someone call Obama, and rule out some kind of arrest or diplomatic incident.”

“Why don’t you do that, England?”  France suggested quite sweetly, almost innocently, but he knew full well why that wasn’t possible.

“He won’t talk to me after that thing at the re-election celebration. You know that, Francis,” England ground out reluctantly. Several nations snickered, reminded of a hilarious incident involving a drunk and naked England, several ducks, a Paparazzi’s camera, and Russia.

England, being a very mature and adult sort of nation, decided to ignore them. He gritted his teeth. He rose above it.

“Let’s not dwell on past transgressions,” He said. “What has happened has happened. Let’s leave it in the past where it belongs. Now,” he rubbed his hands together. “Does anyone know if Alfred has CCTV?”

 

* * *

 

 

Holy shit he _did_. ‘Little Alfred’ finally saw some action! Oh yeah, he still had it.

What was ‘it’, anyway? Some kind of special gene? (Or special jeans – if one were to ask ‘do he got the booty?’ in relation to Alfred F Jones, the answer would most certainly be a resounding ‘he dooooo’)

Shame he remembered _absolutely nothing_. He didn’t even know who he’d done the deed with! He could’ve had that hot threesome with Columbia and Venezuela like he’d be subtly hinting at for a few years, and he’d be none the wiser. Now there was a depressing thought.

He tried to remember the feel of that hand in his as he took his mystery guest upstairs. Sadly, he couldn’t recall Columbia’s blood red nails or Venezuela’s duelling scar (tough breaks, Little Alfred), but he did reckon the hand had been quite large, a similar size to his own. That narrowed the field considerably.

It couldn’t be England, because the man had tiny girl hands, and besides he always said that sleeping with America on July 4th would be a betrayal of everything he stood for. (What a drama queen.) It could always be France, even if he’d never hear the end of it from the others. He wasn’t unattractive, and he was really good with his hands. He wouldn’t mind that, if it turned out to be true.

He should probably be honest with himself and admit that he’d willingly sleep with most people back at that house. Except for, you know, people like Russia. He had his principles.

It was something about Nations; the vast majority of them turned out to be hot. He had no idea why, but he wasn’t complaining.

He thought he heard a little voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like his brother say ‘Alfred, you’re a slut’, but he ignored it. Probably the heatstroke talking.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred, as it turned out, did not in fact have CCTV, but Hungary did, and she didn’t even have the decency to look at least slightly contrite as England booted up her laptop to view the footage of last night, eyeing her suspiciously all the while. What else might she have under surveillance? He didn’t like this one bit.

No less than 15 video feeds became visible on the laptop screen, each one filled with grey static.

“Elizaveta, you need help.” Austria said. She waved him away.

“Never mind that now, this is supposed to be a live stream!” She cried. “What happened to my cameras?”

England’s suspicion was immediately piqued. It looked like somebody had taken them out; someone who knew what they were doing. Foul Play was looking likely.

“Let’s just view some of the feed from last night, eh?” Canada suggested. “We can try and track his movements using that, and worry about what happened to the cameras later.”

“Good idea.” England agreed. He handed the laptop over to Hungary, who was practically vibrating with excitement about seeing the fruits of her (probably illegal) labour.

“Here,” She said finally, carefully positioning it on the table so everyone could see it. “America’s just about to the strip-tease.”

France cheered, and England blushed. It’d been hard enough to sit through the first time round (no pun intended), he didn’t need to see it again. He almost wanted to ask Hungary to pick another video, but then France would ask why, and then where would they be? He hoped nobody looked at him in the video. He hoped nobody looked at him now.

They lapsed into silence as they viewed the footage, listening to the thud of bass and some tinny whoops and yells issuing from the speakers.

“Well, there goes his shirt.” Australia commented. There was silence again, punctuated by someone on the screen yelling ‘Whoo yeah! Take it off!’ at a volume that made him wince. England looked around at his fellow nations. Francis was smiling and enjoying the show, of course. Canada was hiding his face, embarrassed enough for both himself and his shameless brother. Australia was watching with the kind of rapt, fascinated attention he usually reserved for wildlife programmes about koalas. He looked incredibly impressed.

An almighty cheer rose up from the speakers, and Austria’s eyes widened.

“I didn’t even know people could _do_ that.” He said. Hungary looked to be in a state of bliss.

“It’s beautiful…” she whispered reverentially, as her on-screen counterpart moved towards Alfred with a handful of twenties.

“Guys?” Canada asked. “Why is this relevant?”

“Shut up, Matthew.” Australia said, without looking away from the screen.

England crossed his legs. Canada was right; this wasn’t relevant. Hot, sure, but not relevant. He pressed fast-forward.

“What? No!” Hungary cried. Australia blinked as if coming out of a stupor.

“Take it off, take it off…” he muttered dazedly.

“I was watching that, Britain!” France hissed angrily.

“We need to focus!” England said, hoping he sounded commanding enough. “None of this helps us to find America! He could be in serious trouble right now!”

“Which is why we need to see every minute of the footage,” France countered. “We could miss a vital clue…” His fingers itched towards the controls.

“A vital clue to the exact length and girth of the Washington monument, you mean.”

“Oh my God.” Said Canada.

“Oh my _God_.” Said Australia.

“Arthur, do not be so uncouth,” Francis sniffed haughtily. “I already know that~”

“Why you little-”

_*oh, mon cheri, your eyebrows are so strong and noble!*_

_*An’, an’ you don’ actually smell much like cheese at all!*_

_*Oh Britain, I-*_

“What the fuck is that?” England shrieked, glancing around wildly to try and find the source of the damning evidence. France leapt for Canada’s phone, the origin of the sound, quickly enough that the casual onlooker might have developed whiplash, smothering it with his hands to try and mute it.  Canada turned it off again, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“You saw nothing!” He hissed.

“That,” Canada said pointedly. “Was _you two_! That was what you were doing last night! And if you two don’t sit down, shut up and help me find my brother, so help me God I _will_ play the rest of this video!” He finished in a shout, holding his phone up above his head threateningly. France sucked in a horrified breath.

England felt an acute sense of betrayal. Canada knew full well that he couldn’t be held responsible for anything he said or did while drunk – Matthew had been there the time he signed over Scotland’s independence. Surely that was proof enough?

“That’s what I thought,” Canada said smugly. “Now, fast forward to the fireworks. They were hours after that particular incident, and we know for sure that Alfred was there.” He looked at Hungary accusingly. “We didn’t need to watch that bit at all, Elizaveta.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” she answered, sighing happily. “But I did! Alfred is definitely a man of many talents.” She looked at Austria pointedly.

“No.” He said.

“Oh no, he’s putting his shirt back on!” Australia cried. The others turned to check and saw that video Alfred was indeed semi-clothed once more, and as the footage was playing double time, was now downing shots with his brother at near supersonic speeds. Canada looked a little like he was having flashbacks.

Chaos flashed before their very eyes. They saw Alfred knocking back more shots than it was probably healthy for anyone to consume in three months, much less three minutes. He danced through the crowd, smoothing ruffled feathers, busting some sweet moves, pressing fresh drinks into empty hands, and generally being kind of suave.

In fact, Arthur thought, one could almost call him sophisticated…

Of course, that was when Hong Kong poked his head in from the garden to announce the fireworks were ready to launch, and America in his excitement ran full pelt into the closed patio door. In fast forward he looked a little bit like Wile. E. Coyote.

It continued. Everyone piled out to watch the fireworks, and the main room emptied. Bangs and shouts and a high-pitched scream echoed faintly from the outside. When they came back in, a slightly singed America was only wearing half as much shirt as before. Canada sighed in remembrance of the incident and sped up the recording.

Images flashed by. Alfred showing a large group of nations into his gaming room on camera four. Sweden and Finland disappearing upstairs on camera six. A group settling down in the kitchen to play spin the bottle (France remembered it fondly –that was his favourite game.)

Iceland was stroking the fridge, for some undiscernible reason. Upstairs on camera eleven, Prussia and Denmark were both trying to climb out of the same window simultaneously, and – the picture disappeared.

“What the hell is happening?” Hungary cried.

“Slow it down slow it down!” Australia flapped his hand frantically in Matthew’s direction. Another three cameras were already down by the time the feed returned to normal speed, and another turned to grey static every couple of seconds or so. Alfred was nowhere to be seen.

“How the hell did we lose him?” England demanded incredulously. Canada made a wordless noise of frustration. What on earth were they going to do now?

“There he is!” Seychelles jabbed excitedly at the screen. “He’s going upstairs.”

“I think he has someone with him.” Hungary said. Alfred was indeed pulling someone upstairs by the wrist, but the camera, one of the last left functional, cut out before his companion came into shot.

One camera left now. The nations leant forward unconsciously, as Alfred rounded the corner.

“That’s the way to his bedroom,” England breathed. “Who the hell’s with him?”

Alfred’s companion was just beginning to become visible, though certainly not visible enough for a positive I.D., when the screen went dark – and that was it. All of Hungary’s feeds were static.

“Is that-” Canada began, shocked. “Is that who I think it was?”

“It can’t be …” Seychelles trailed off uncertainly.

“Do you seriously mean to tell me,” Austria said incredulously. “That after all that panic, he’s been upstairs the whole time?”

“I’ll go check!” Hong Kong said, dashing off immediately.

“I can’t believe dear America finally got lucky,” France wiped away a tear. “I’m so proud.”

“Yeah, but who with?” England said. “Not to say anything against the rest of you, but the usual suspects are kind of here, you know?” He gestured to himself and France.

“Oi, fuck off mate!” Australia said indignantly. “I can sleep with America if I bloody well want to!”

“Yeah, but you haven’t, have you?”

“That’s not helping, Canada!”

Hong Kong dashed back through the door.

“His door is locked!” He announced. “It’s true!”

 

* * *

 

 

America sneezed. People must have been talking about him. Fucking finally. Now they might actually find him.

Well, it was that or he had another financial crisis imminent. He was hoping for the first.

He could genuinely hear the sizzling sounds his skin made as the sun beat down relentlessly upon it, like bacon frying (dammit, now he was hungry), getting stronger all the while as time crawled ever forward, inching towards midday. He wondered what the hell kind of train line he was bound to anyway, to lie still and unmolested by the finest fruits of the industrial revolution after being there almost three hours. Obviously whoever had done this to him wanted him cooked rather than flattened. They fancied themselves a taste of fine American meat…

Alfred sniggered internally. There was some innuendo that just couldn’t be avoided, even when you were talking to yourself. _Especially_ when talking to yourself. If someone wanted to eat an American or, you know, ‘eat’ an American, clearly he would be a stellar example of the prime of US manhood (heh, manhood) for any discerning cannibal or eager student of fellatio.

He considered that last train of thought a little more.

He considered the possibility that the sun might be cooking his brain as well as his skin.

He also considered the very real possibility that Russia enjoyed eating people as a sort of fun and exciting way to pass the time in that godforsaken wasteland he called a country, and managed to thoroughly freak himself out.

You probably couldn’t cook anything properly out there in the frozen vegetable drawer of the world, which was why he had waited until he was in the warm golden sunshine of the American mid-west to strike…

He was fucked.

 _I’m about to be eaten by a former communist,_ America thought desperately. _If you’re out there, God, now would be a great time to step in, m’kay?_

 

* * *

 

 

France had jumped up and rushed out of the room in search of the gossip and drama almost as soon as Hong Kong had returned with the vital intel, but it took the others a little longer to react. After a pause, England stood up and stretched languidly. Hungary began to push Austria towards the door excitedly. He seemed mostly resigned to his fate.

“Did Germany leave yet?” Arthur asked, seemingly obscurely. Canada consulted the list.

“Uh, yeah he did. Why?”

“Shame. It’s funny when he knocks Alfred’s doors down. Guess I should pick the lock now.” He sighed, as if that was somehow more normal and boring than kicking the door down. He headed out to the hall, presumably to look for his lockpicks. He could be heard rifling through his pockets, cursing quietly all the while, before making a pleased sort of noise and thudding up the stairs in a way that implied the general displeasure he felt at the state of things, but he did everything like that, so that was no real indicator of mood.

“Seychelles,” Canada began, once England was out of earshot. “I saw something that... let’s say _surprised_ me in the video, and-”

“I think I know what you mean,” She interrupted. “But it can’t be right, it just can’t.”

“Right,” Canada agreed. “There’s no way they’d actually…”

“No way,” Seychelles confirmed.

“Still, best to check.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” The pair of them followed the other Nations upstairs.

On the landing outside America’s door, they found England knelt in front of the doorknob, jabbing at it murderously with a set of small silver tools, with the others busy distracting him to the best of their not inconsiderable ability.

“Mmm, _Angleterre_ , you’ve always been so good with your hands…” Francis was saying. In response, England made a vicious swipe for his ankles with one of the little instruments. “You’ll shut up and let me concentrate if you know what’s good for you, dirty frog.” Arthur growled through teeth clenched around a lockpick.

“After you’ve seen America naked, can we go home?” Austria asked Hungary.

“Fine,” She sighed, clutching her camera close to her chest in anticipation. “But I get to use the paddle tonight.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded firmly.

“Deal.” He said.

“Who d’you reckon he’s scored with then?” Australia asked Hong Kong, waggling his eyebrows.

“New Zealand.” Hong Kong replied mildly.

“Oh, piss off!”

There was a loud thunk.

“Huh,” England said. “It’s just like riding a bike.”

He had worked his delinquent magic. He stood up, tucking his tools away in a back pocket, and pushed lightly on the door. It swung open. The Nations filed inside.

“No way…” Seychelles breathed.

“But he _wouldn’t_ -” Canada said, shocked.

“The fuck is this.” England said darkly.

France began to giggle in delight, and Hungary took a picture of the Nation sleeping peacefully in America’s bed. It was decidedly not America.

In fact, the shirtless – possibly stark naked under the blanket – Nation lying in Alfred’s bed, clutching the American’s fire-damaged shirt from earlier in the night like it was a precious metal, or possibly an extremely tasty snack, was none other than the United States of America’s sworn enemy; Ivan Braginsky, the Russian Federation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You had literally one preference for sexual partners Alfred, and that was not be Russia.  
> You fucked up.


End file.
